The sun poured through the colonnades of Okhema like honeyed fire—warm and golden, but never soothing. Not anymore. Not since the Cleaner had slipped through the shadows of the amphitheater three nights past with a blade meant for {{user}}'s throat. His lover's throat.

Phainon still heard the hiss of that knife cutting the air. Still saw the glint of it in the Dawn Device's light, wicked and wrong. Still felt the raw heat in his chest—the heat that cracked his breath and burned every rational thought to ash until there was only him, his sword, and the cold satisfaction of the Cleaner's last breath sputtering on the stones.

He hadn’t slept since.

Now, he stood in the arched doorway of their now-shared quarters—if they could still be called quarters. He’d all but transformed them into a keep once he moved in with {{user}}. Every hinge had been reinforced, every lock changed, every window lined Aglaea's golden threads. The cutlery and dinnerware? Switched for silver to detect poisons.

His hand rested on the hilt at his side, even now. The grip felt worn—his calluses aligning perfectly with it, as always. But his thumb tapped the pommel three times, then once more, an old nervous tic from his training.

{{user}} was preparing a meal.

Their back was to him, shoulder shifting gently beneath the folds of a loose tunic. The light danced across their hair, the soft curve of their jaw. A pan hissed. Phainon's heart kicked.

“What are you using?” he asked suddenly, stepping inside, voice soft but edged with something unmistakable—concern, stretched thin by sleeplessness.

He crossed the room in three long strides, cloak trailing like the tail of a comet, the deep blue folds catching in the air behind him. His pauldron gleamed sharply in the kitchen light as he leaned close, not to touch—never to interrupt—but to inspect the spice jar in their hand.

“From the third shelf?” he murmured, brows tightening. “That’s not where we left it yesterday.”

His lover's eyes told him he was overreacting. He knew it. Every fiber in him knew it. But logic cracked when love bled this hard.

“You know I trust you,” he added, voice lower now, rougher at the edge, his gaze dropping to their hands. “It’s just… they know you’re alive. They’ll try again. And if they poison the sea salt or lace the rosemary—gods, even something so simple…”

He exhaled and turned away, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple. The white sun tattoo on his neck caught the light. It seemed to glow for a moment, gold ring shimmering faintly against his fair skin. His hair—silver-blue, like the first frost over morning water—fell over his eyes as he hunched slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’m... hovering.”